Stay In My Life
by selanfene
Summary: All good things must come to an end. Sprace, Blush, Javid SLASH. Rated T for language and safety.
1. Prolouge

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Newsies or anything else that I... don't own. This dislcaimer goes for the rest of the fic, as well.

**I. Prolouge**

In three, very different homes, three, very different couples lay in three, very different beds. They had three, very different lives, and it was three, very different times of day, but the coming, cataclysmic event was of the selfsame stuff in all three, very different situations, and three of the six young men lay blissfully unaware.


	2. Sprace

**II. Sprace**

The first couple lay side by side, not cuddled in any way. The one on the left, the Italian, had one leg draped lazily across the other, and stared at the ceiling while the other dozed lightly by his side.

Across the room, the dirty window was open, allowing a hot August breeze to stir the air. Race, somewhat claustrophobic, was glad for this window, out of which stood an old-fashioned fire escape. The interior of the room was cluttered—a desk near the bed held a heap of papers, mainly college paperwork. Clothes littered the hardwood floor, and the closet door stood open, revealing the empty state of the rod.

Racetrack appreciated none of it. Earlier that day, he had had an epiphany. There was truly no two ways about it; nevertheless, he didn't look forward to it.

That morning, over a bowl of Cap'n Crunch at his kitchen table, buried under bills he had been meaning to call his parents about, Race had a thought. _I'm going off to college in two days, _he realised. He also realised that he had an insane amount of preparation to do—most of his belongings were still strewn about the apartment he and Spot had shared since Spot's family kicked him out at Christmas. He hadn't yet finished his paperwork, contacted his friends for goodbyes, or quite his job. And then there was the most desperate loose end—Spot.

Now, at approximately 7:30 PM, he had emailed most of his friends, called his boss, shoved most of his belongings in boxes, and made significant headway on his paperwork, but done nothing about Spot.

Spot, who was now waking from his light slumber. He propped himself up on one elbow and yawned. Something about his manner was distinctly feline. "Dinner soon?"

With a sigh, Race said, "I can whip something up in half an hour, but it won't be fancy—I don't have time."

"But you've got time to waste lying around my bedroom while I take a nap?"

He didn't sound even remotely argumentative, so Racetrack decided to let it go. "_Our_ bedroom, Spot. I haven't left yet."

"Yeah, well." Spot scratched himself. "Close enough." There was a pause, and then Spot added, "You'll come back and visit me soon, right?"

Racetrack avoided his gaze. "Yeah. But—listen, I gotta talk to you."

There were no words on Spot's tongue—there needn't have been; his face said it all. Curiosity, incredulity, lust, hunger, hope, and misgiving traveled his features before he secured a blank expression. "Listening."

"I'm going to college in two days, Spot. I mean, day after _tomorrow_ I'll be gone. I'll be like two thousand miles away. You'll wanna get some, and not just from your hand—and I don't wanna be holding you back." Racetrack tapped his fingers nervously against his opposite wrist and looked up at Spot.

"Don't you dare break up with me, Racetrack. Don't you _dare_."

Honestly, Race wished he could say, "Okay, I won't," or blow it off and forget about it, or anything other than break up with Spot. After two years of on-and-off dating, more so on in the past year, off in the first, Race wasn't ready to give Spot up. If he could go to college with Spot... surely everything would be good, if only he could take Spot with him. But he couldn't, and that was a simple fact—Spot had gone through his high school years blowing off classes and getting near-failing grades. He was as motivated as Race was tall, and was not cut out for college. That was a plain fact, no question in anyone's mind. "I'm sorry."

Spot was silent. His cheek twitched, but he allowed no change in expression.

"So... Look, Spot, really—I love you. Seriously. I don't want to break up with you, and I don't want to leave you, and I... God, Spot, fucking say something. I can't _do _this unless you—I mean, I'm prepared for you to blow up, beat the _shit _out of me, yell and scream, anything. But I can't do this if you just sit there, quiet, pretending not to care."

Still, Spot said nothing.

"Oh, but maybe that's your goal. No, Spot, it won't work. The point is—I think we should see other people."

Spot snapped, "Yeah, in other words, you don't want to be _tied down _by me when you go off to college to move on and FORGET ME."

Putting his head in his hands, Race groaned. Then he said, "Spot. I am _not _going to forget you. I just want to—you're right, I don't want to be tied down by you at college. But I still love you, and I want to... kind of be able to pick this back up when I'm here, but be able to see other people when I'm gone. Please—stay in my life."

"Is there someone else already, or what?" Spot cracked a little—jealousy and anger crept into his eyes.

"No, no, no. I promise. Spot, promise me something."

"What?"

"You'll stay in my life—you have to. Please promise me that we can still be friends, and nothing will be awkward, and you'll know I'll always love you. If it goes that way, we can get back together later, but..."

Spot stared at his hands. His nails needed clipping, especially on his left hand, and he had a scrape on his right, middle knuckle. He pushed down his cuticles, then looked up again. "No, Racetrack. I'll stay in your life—we can be friends. But I don't want this hanging over my head. I don't want to be hoping that you'll come back and everything can go back to normal. Either it ends completely or it stays completely."

This had not been the reaction Race had expected. Knowing Spot, he had figured he would take the deal, and Race would, at the very least, have a guaranteed fling upon his return. He had had his misgivings about the very idea of breaking up with Spot from the beginning, and now he wasn't sure he could do it. Never be allowed to lie in bed kissing Spot, forgetting everything else? It seemed impossible. Racetrack wrapped Spot in a tight hug and even planted a firm kiss on his lips. "Okay. If that's the way you want it to be, that's the way it'll have to be."

With that, Racetrack turned and walked to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Now alone, Spot's face crumpled into a degenerate lump. He didn't cry; boys don't cry. He didn't cry, but his fist balled up tight enough to make the bones creak and the muscles cramp, and he punched hard enough to leave a permanent dent in the wall by his bed.


	3. Blush

III

**III. Blush**

The second couple lay in the warm comfort of their lovers' arms, heads bent together and sheets tangled 'tween legs. One had his eyes shut, his breathing coming in an even pattern—deeply in, deeply out, blowing a warm gust against the blonde's restless face. Neither boy was dressed, a fact which the blonde was suddenly painfully aware of. He wanted to turn over, but could not for fear of disturbing his boyfriend. Instead, he listened to the silence in the house and tried not to think too much.

Mush, lying silently beside Blink, still lived at home with his parents, which Kid Blink thought was beyond adorable. His family was normal enough to make Blink's skin crawl when he first met them, but now Blink was used to them—in bed by eleven, always, and up at 7 to start the day. Their house looked like something out of a Crate & Barrel magazine, save for Mush's bedroom itself.

Even Mush's bedroom, though, was a bit too tidy and a bit too designer for Blink's tastes. The walls were painted a nondescript beige tone, and the woodwork was all painted dark green to compliment it. The furniture was in shades of beige and dark green ("Fawn and forest," Mush's mother corrected Blink whenever he called it that). Admittedly, it looked more cluttered and comfortable than usual with half of it in cardboard boxes bursting at the seams. Somehow, though, Blink longed painfully for the spotlessly clean room... the room that didn't show how soon he and Mush would be split.

Blink wasn't sure how Mush could take their pending separation so calmly—hell, Blink wasn't sure how he could even sleep, knowing it was coming. Himself, he had tossed and turned for hours earlier that night before giving in and walking to Mush's house. Even here, with Mush, he could not sleep.

Suddenly—or, rather, unexpectedly—Mush tilted his head up to look in Blink's eyes. Unsure how long Mush had been awake, Blink smiled weakly down at him. The two were suspended in the moment until Mush looked away and said, "Blinkers."

"Yeah?" Blink couldn't quite look at Mush, couldn't quite fathom the idea of being alone, couldn't quite face it.

"I'm leaving tomorrow." There was no sentiment in Mush's voice.

Blink shut his eye tight and sighed. "I know."

"Remind me—why did we decide to go to colleges across the country?" Kid Blink glanced at Mush to see him staring at the beige ceiling with his brow furrowed.

He leaned over to rest his head on Mush's shoulder and murmured, "I don't know, Mushlies, I really don't."

Silence blanketed the boys then, and they breathed deeply and in unison with each other and the rest of the world. It was an agonizing peace, a beautiful moment in which Blink could only think, _Why? _It was one of the biggest moments of bliss, clarity, and pain in Kid Blink's life so far, and when it was broken, he knew what had to happen.

"Mush."

"Yeah?"

"You know what we have to do?" Blink was sitting now, and looking down at Mush with thusfar unmatched intensity. (Or, at least, intensity that he hadn't had since last time they'd had sex.)

To Blink's surprise, Mush sat up so their faces were barely an inch apart and said, "Yeah." Subconsciously, Blink held his breath. He fully expected a kiss, that much he would admit, and was somewhat disappointed when he didn't get one.

"So." Kid Blink was stalling. "I'm guessing you don't want to be the one to do it?"

Mush looked at his boyfriend, looked long and hard. He didn't want to make Blink do it, but he didn't think he _could _do it himself. "No. I don't."

It was Blink's turn to stare at the ceiling. Although he knew it wasn't true, he said hopefully, "Well, maybe we don't have to do it. Maybe we can make it work."

Neither boy needed to say anything—they both knew it wasn't true, and they both knew the other knew it. Mush reached over and took Blink's hand. "Kid, I don't want to leave you."

"I know." Blink squeezed Mush's hand in his and leaned his head back on his shoulder.

"And I'm not going to, really. I mean, I still want to be your friend—I still _want_ to be your boyfriend."

"I know that."

"But I can't."

"I know that, too."

They resumed silence once again. It was unusual for the pair to be so quiet—in normal circumstances, they would never run out of things to say. But really, it wasn't that they had nothing to say, but that neither one wanted to say it.

Finally, Kid Blink stood up and walked to the door. He turned back for a moment to look at his beau one last time, and then said, "Goodbye, Mush."

"Wait!"

Blink turned.

"Don't leave me!"

"Mush, I have to."

"No," Mush insisted. "You don't, you don't, we can still be friends! Please!"

Kid Blink gave Mush a long, measuring look. He smiled forlornly, then walked out the door.

Dejected, Mush watched his bedroom door click shut with unprecedented finality. "So that's how it is, bitch..." Mush ran a hand through his hair and tried to breathe. "Fuck."


	4. Javid

IV

**IV. Javid**

Jack shouldered open the door and looked around. The room had one queen-sized bed with a tasteless quilt and shapeless pillows, and the bedspread matched the curtains on the window. The carpet was a worn-out hue of tan with little red diamonds, and all of the furniture conformed to one main pattern. But Jack supposed it didn't matter—it wasn't bad for the price, as hotel rooms went. He leaned back out the door and glanced at David, who stood against the wall, head back. It had been three days since his last shave, and he didn't smell too god, but nevertheless he was the most beautiful thing Jack had ever seen.

"Seems fine, Davey," He said, patting David on the stomach.

David lurched forward, moving mechanically into the room. His movements were disjointed and dragged slightly, ending with a loud drop onto the bed. Lying spread-eagled with his shoes still on, David shut his eyes. "Jack?"

"Hmm?" Jack asked from across the room. The view from their hotel room window was not impressive.

"Where the hell are we?" Stretching out his arms and legs, David turned his face to look at Jack's back.

It was nearly a minute before Jack responded. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, shrugged, and turned around. "Someplace in Virginia, maybe?" He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed by David's head. "I could go ask the guy at the desk, if you want."

Dave frowned and looped a finger through the belt loop of Jack's jeans. "No, I don't like the look of him. Too surly and he'll probably try to seduce you."

With a laugh, Jack replied, "Davey, he's my cousin. I made you stop here because my uncle owns this place."

"Go on then, I guess," David said as he turned over onto his back and flopped an arm above his head.

Jack leaned over as if to kiss David's cheek but paused half an inch too early. The air between his lips and David's cheekbone burned, and he pulled away. "Um, yeah. I'll be right back."

Outside the room, Jack rested his head on the door. He wasn't quite sure what was going on in his head. He knew that while he started moving into the dorms at a city college, David would be flying to Stanford. No doubt he would meet lots of smart, talented, sexy boys and forget about Jack. Why would he remember a boy who was destined to work minimum wage jobs and live in roach-filled apartments all of his natural life?

With a sigh, Jack walked out to the reception desk and rested his elbows on it. "Heya, Henry."

"What do you want, Jack?" Henry's sleeves were rolled to the elbow to show off his very tanned, very toned, very hairy forearms.

"Two things—can you spare a minute for a cousin?"

"Make it snappy, there's a party leaving today and checkout's in ten minutes."

Jack bit his cheek to keep from making a smartass remark. Instead, he held up a hand and ticked off his points on his fingers. "First, where the hell are we? Second—well, that can wait till you answer the first."

"Just outside Richmond. What's the second one?"

Jack leaned forward a little and said quietly, "I need some help with the guy that came in with me."

Immediately, Henry closed up. His eyes clouded over and he hunched his shoulders in slightly. He glanced around the lobby, then said, "Jack, you know I don't approve of your... ah... lifestyle."

"Okay, fine," Jack snapped. "There's this _girl _that I need help with. Better?"

"A bit."

"So she's going off to college in California and I know she'll move on. I don't wanna be left behind. What should I do about hi—erm, her?"

Henry played with a button on his shirt and eventually replied, "I think you already know what to do, you just don't want to admit it."

Jack frowned. "Thanks, I guess."

--

Jack pushed open the door again. David sat in his boxers and a wifebeater, tracing patterns on his knee. "Just outside Richmond," Jack said without ado.

"Come here."

Jack was helpless to disobey. Once his butt hit the quilt, David's hands found their way around his neck, behind which his fingers laced together.

Specs had once compared kissing Dutchy to a chemical reaction that's triggered by heat. When David's lips pressed against Jack's, he could think of nothing more fitting.

Before Jack even realised what was happening, David was moving on. His tongue tasted like cotton. Jack didn't think about it, just automatically kissed back. Leaning into David's body, Jack sighed. His brain wasn't saying, "JACK, GET A GRIP!" like it should have been—it simply kept switching between "GET SOME! GET SOME!" and "DAVEY'S A REALLY FUCKIN' GOOD KISSER..." like a politician between sides of an issue.

Moments later, Jack's hands took charge. From the vantage point of David's pectorals, Jack's hands said, "Now hang on just one cotton-pickin' minute!" and pushed away from David. Sit took a few minutes for the message to get to Jack's brain, so Jack and David spent the next moments breathlessly staring in each others' eyes. Then Jack's brain caught up with the show and he blurted, "Oh, shit. David—Davey, hang on."

David hung on.

"Dave, I—I mean, I love you, 'kay? You gotta... fuck, but yeah, I love you."

"Well, I love you, too, Jack." David folded his ankles and waited.

"You're flying off to fucking _Stanford_, Dave. That's in California. Like, with smart, talented, sexy Californians and stuff."

David let out a small laugh. "Jack, I'm not going to cheat on you or, like, forget you or anything. I promise."

Jack glanced down at his fingers. It was completely against everything he believed he was to say it, but he said it anyway. "It doesn't matter what you say, David. I'll be stuck here in a crappy college and the fact is I'll—I'll still _think_ you're getting with sexy, smart, talented people from Stanford. I'll be too fucking jealous."

"And," David pointed out, "knowing you, you'll probably end up hooking up with stupid, untalented sexy people. I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, Jack—you're not headed for great things. You'll probably go to college, get mediocre grades, and get drunk or high every night and have lots of sex. Don't get mad—you know I'm right."

Jack sucked air through his teeth and hissed, "Davey, no, I wouldn't. I need you."

"Don't be ridiculous—of course you would. Don't think I don't know you've had sex with Spot more than once since we started dating." David was undeniably angry now—his voice was laced with poison and his eyes bore through Jack.

"I was drunk!" was Jack's feeble protest.

"You'll be drunk at college, too."

Jack had no reply.

"Fuck you, Jack. I don't need you. I'm headed straight for a great life with lots of opportunities. I don't need you to sit there and drag me down."

Quietly, Jack asked, "Are you breaking up with me, Davey?"

David paused, considering his options. He had never considered breaking up with Jack before, and the thought had always sent him into panic attacks. Still, he was right—he could have such a bright future, with a great job and lots of money. He could do anything—he had the brains and the motivation. Jack's life wasn't going to be that way, it was a simple fact. "Yeah, I'm breaking up with you."

Slowly, Jack's face changed. It had been smooth, human, slightly detached, and beautiful, but now, with a smooth crumpling, it degenerated into a splotchy, red, pinched face, rife with unbridled emotion. "Davey." Jack's voice was strong and desperate, and it scared David. "You can't break up with me."

"I can—I am. I know how you feel, but—"

"Shut the fuck up, David Jacobs. You don't know SHIT about how I feel!" Jack's voice cracked. "I fucking _love_ you, David, but that's not all—I can't be alone! I just fucking—"

"Jack," David said evenly, "You were going to break up with me anyway."

Jack was silent, then, fists clenched, he whispered, "Well, it was wrong of me."

"I'm not taking it back, Jack. We're done." Getting up to leave, David lightly patted Jack on the shoulder.

Jack's hand shot out and gripped David's wrist almost painfully tight. "Email me when you get to Stanford," he begged.

"I will," promised David. Then he pulled free and walked out of the hotel room, jingling the keys to his car as he walked.


End file.
